


fogging the windows up

by sugarboat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Knotting, Light Verbal Humiliation, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Trans Male Character, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat
Summary: Martin wants to get wrecked by the big bad wolf and Jon is nothing if not supportive.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 25
Kudos: 269





	fogging the windows up

“How does all of this work, anyway?” Jon asks. Neither of the other occupants in the room seem inclined to answer. “It isn’t even a full moon tonight. Of course, that aspect of the curse could be nothing more than the usual baseless speculation, unfounded hypotheses being spouted so often that they’ve eventually become considered as fact-”

“Was there a question there somewhere?” Peter finally asks. Martin whines below him, distraught. 

“More than one, actually. When you first start- changing?” 

“Jon.” Martin's breathless, and quite frankly, gorgeous. So nicely flushed in his cheeks, his lips plump and red and wet from his previous activities. Jon itches with the urge to go to his side. “Jon, please.” 

“I’m not giving you a statement,” Peter says. “That wasn’t part of the deal, Archivist.” 

“I don’t want a statement,” Jon lies.

Both of them, Peter and Martin, seem relieved by that. Martin flops back against the mattress from where he’d been half-propped on his elbows, and Peter does something of the same. Pushing Martin’s thighs back up so Jon is watching his lover be near folded in half. The scene is dreadfully appealing. The skin along Martin’s thighs is littered with long red scratches, looking swollen and tender. Martin poorly stifles a gasp when Peter licks across them.

Like this, they’re something of a study in contrasts, because Martin is all pale and flushing skin, and in this form apparently Peter’s fur is a stark black. Which, why, because he’s gone grey as a human. Peter jostles Martin around like he’s weightless. Holds him in place with large and disconcertingly proportioned hands, some mix between human and- and not, and Jon watches Peter dip himself down between Martin’s thighs, back to licking him open.

“Oh, Christ,” Martin sighs, rolling his hips back against Peter’s snout. Jon could watch him like this for hours, he thinks. Needy, and shameless in taking his pleasure. Martin’s back arches and his chest heaves, and he slides one hand down along his body until it’s buried in the fur at Peter’s neck, urging him on. “Yes, Peter, f-fuck.”

Peter gives a deep chuckle that practically vibrates in Jon’s own chest, distanced from the action as he is. There’s no doubt Martin feels it as well, from the tortured groan he gives. The sound of Peter’s tongue is lewd and thick in the room. Martin’s breath hitches every time Peter breaches him, shudders and squirms at the press of teeth into such thin and vulnerable skin. 

Jon can tell he’s getting close, and Peter seems determined to get him there as well, growling low in his throat and pinning Martin’s legs with his knees near to his shoulders. He watches closely, the rhythmic jerking of Martin’s hips, his fist still twisted in Peter’s fur gripping white-knuckle tight while the other scrambles across the sheets. The chant of Peter’s name, faster and almost slurred and littered with pleas. 

It would be heartless to deny him, at this point.

“Peter,” Jon says, fighting to keep his lips from twitching as Peter pulls up with a last, lingering lick – Jon can see it, even from here, the broad length of his tongue lapping up from Martin’s hole all the way to his front – and Martin nearly wails with despair.

“Yes, Archivist?” Peter drawls. The fur around his snout is all slick soaked, agile tongue flicking around animalistically like it’s instinctive to want to keep tasting Martin. Jon rather agrees. 

They both ignore Martin’s complaints. The frantic shifting of his body, covered in a thin sheen of perspiration and littered with bites that will no doubt blossom into bruises in the near future. He tugs fitfully at Peter’s fur, and Peter lets drop one of his legs to effortlessly wrench Martin’s hand free of its grip. Peter takes Martin’s hands by the wrist, both of them wrapped easily within one of his own, and pins them above his head. 

“I am a bit preoccupied at the moment,” Peter reminds Jon pointedly. 

“Yes, of course.” There’s a fleeting moment of panic, because Jon has at this point become thoroughly distracted by the sight before him. “It’s safe to say that you can control your, uh, transformations.” 

“Sure.” Peter’s bent down again, hulking form dwarfing Martin’s in a way that is… uniquely inspiring. Martin seems to agree. 

“Have you always been able to?” 

“Jon,” Martin gasps. “Please-”

“Hmm, now that is a question.” Peter drops his hips slightly and Martin practically bucks beneath him. Jon pictures the thick weight of Peter’s cock drooling precome all over Martin’s skin. “It might have been more difficult, in the beginning.” 

“And when was that?” 

Peter pushes Martin’s leg open and to the side, stretching him obscenely. It gives Jon a clearer view. Particularly as Peter leans himself back just enough so Jon can see how he’s sliding his cock against Martin’s pelvis. Dragging it along his dick and upwards, reaching nearly to Martin’s navel, Peter rutting slickly against Martin’s stomach. 

“Oh, who could remember something like that,” Peter breathes. He laps across Martin’s lips, makes him whine. Makes him taste himself, no doubt. 

“Most people, I would imagine.” _Yourself included_ , Jon thinks grudgingly but doesn’t add. Arguing with Peter isn’t exactly the most productive activity in the world. 

Jon watches them find a rhythm together, slow and torturous if the way Martin strains and desperately pants is any indication. Peter keeps him pinned down, keeps his legs splayed wide. His free hand drops Martin’s thigh, however, moves to petting and scratching over his stomach or palming at Martin’s chest. He scrapes a claw across Martin’s nipple, drawing a shaking moan before he twists and rolls it roughly between forefinger and thumb, tugging at it almost cruelly. 

Something tight and awful crawls up Jon’s throat but he swallows it. Martin is still enjoying himself, arching up into the touch even as his moaning takes on an almost pained tenor. It looks like Martin could even come this way, responding to whatever low, murmuring words Peter’s dropping into his ear – _such a good slut for me, aren’t you? It’s no wonder you had to beg your little Archivist to let me come and take care of you_ – and grinding himself off against the heavy bulk of Peter’s ridiculous cock. 

Peter draws back enough to slip along Martin’s folds, soaked with slick, a smooth glide up towards his stomach, again and again. Playing at penetration but not actually providing it. Martin tosses his head, baring his throat. There are fine hairs plastered to his forehead and nape by sweat. Jon imagines running his fingers through his hair, petting him and holding him still for Peter to take. 

Maybe next time. 

“So, did something bite you?” Jon asks, and Martin groans in frustration when Peter stops again. 

“Please, please, please,” Martin begs, his hips still working. Peter lets him, an air of exaggerated thought about him. 

“Did something bite me.” 

“That’s generally how these types of stories begin.” 

Peter frowns, head cocking. “Did something bite me?” 

“Peter, please move, please,” Martin interjects. 

Jon huffs. “You’re the only one here who could possibly tell us that.” 

“Oh, I’m sure Elias knows.” 

“Peter.” Martin again, tugging like he actually stood a chance at freeing himself. 

“He’s not exactly here to ask, now, is he?” Jon snaps. 

“Only in spirit.” 

Only watching. Jon shudders at the sudden weight of the Eye before it drops back to its baseline thrum of knowing, of seeing, pulsing along his lines. It translates into the feeling of cool fingers at the nape of his neck when Jon closes his eyes. What it would be like, Elias sprawled in the seat Jon currently occupies, Jon knelt at his feet.

Jon shifts himself, clearing his throat. “Martin.” 

The air is caught briefly in his lungs by the way Martin snaps his head to the side. His regard a warm balm that starts somewhere in Jon’s chest and simmers its way outwards. His eyes are hazy with lust, bleary with tears but he looks- 

Martin smiles at him before he breathes a shivering, wavering groan as Peter nips carefully along his neck and down. 

“Martin,” Jon says again, patient until Martin opens his eyes again, “Are you ready to come?” 

“ _Yes_.” Emphatic plea, accompanied by a wriggle of his body, a roll of his hips. Jon imagines briefly Martin’s head pillowed on his lap, the pout of his lips against his cock. “Yes, god yes, so ready, Jon, please-”

“Without even getting a cock in you?” Jon drawls, gratified by the way Martin jolts like the words are electrified, flushing somehow darker. “You want to get fucked, don’t you?” 

“Christ,” Martin moans. Staring at Jon, licking his lips. “Yes, I- I-”

“Say it then. Tell me how badly you need it, Martin,” Jon says, as if everything about Martin isn’t already telling him precisely that. “Tell Peter Lukas exactly how you want him to fuck you.” 

“What a marvelous idea,” Peter all but purrs, except purr is hardly the right word for how deep and grating his voice has become, resonant like a dog’s growl caught in his chest. “Where would you like to take my cock, then? Your pretty mouth? Or should I shove your tits together and put it there? Come all over your face, I bet you’d even lick me clean after.” 

It should disgust him, probably. Watching the monster that is Peter Lukas putting its hands all over Martin. Squeezing at his chest with misshapen hands, its body all broad shoulders and thickly corded muscle beneath black, bristling fur. Some mix between man and beast. But Martin pants and whines and bucks up into every touch, makes an absolutely filthy noise as Peter gropes his chest and shoves his pecs together, and well. It’s not disgust Jon’s feeling at all. 

“Peter, god I- I want-”

“Oh, I think we all know how much you _want_ , Martin,” Jon says. It feels a bit like stepping back in time, wearing the skin of something contemptuous just because it makes Martin keen, makes him wet, and it curls pleasurable and lazy in Jon’s gut, too. “Which one of your greedy holes do you want Peter to stuff full of cock?” 

“A-Anywhere, anywhere you want, please, I just- I need-”

“You’ll just take whatever I give you, is that it?” Peter’s tone is sneering, smirking – it raises Jon’s hackles, prods into that ugly space inside of him that’s possessive. Jealous. 

Martin groans throatily, however, and strains to spread his legs. Babbling pleas as Peter’s back to rubbing his cock between his thighs. Jon can’t see it but he can still tell the moment Peter slips himself inside Martin, how Martin’s body arches and he stops breathing, shuddering as Peter’s hips work. 

Jon can only imagine how it must look. How it would look, if he were just to come closer and see how Martin’s being stretched out around the thick bulk of Peter’s cock. Forcing him wide and gaping, coring deeper and deeper inside him with every rocking thrust. Peter’s still got Martin’s hands caught within one of his own, the other planted on Martin’s hip to keep him in proper position for his cock. 

The sounds Martin has finally begun making are like nothing so much as sobs. Heaving pants and pleads, desperate cries of Peter’s name – and of his own, which strike Jon somewhere low in his gut each and every time – growing higher and reedier until Peter drops his hips down and must hilt himself fully. Martin comes in a rush, writhing, speared and spread open on Peter’s cock.

Jon leans forward, drinking in every detail of the scene before him. Writing them to memory, the tear tracks down Martin’s flushed cheeks, the sweat-tousled mess of his hair as he bucks and thrashes in Peter’s bruising grip. Watching his body move, jostled by the way Peter snaps his cock into him, over and over. 

Uncannily, Jon finds himself almost drifting. Lulled. Warmed throughout his core and separate, somehow. It feels like he’s had a statement, or is in the middle of taking one, filling to his brim with details. The red, swollen bitemarks on Martin’s skin that Jon longs to soothe over with his tongue. Mottled bruising just beginning to show through. 

Even Peter, he watches. The flex and pull of his muscles, the ease with which he moves the bulk of his body. How he leverages his weight to fuck Martin into the mattress beneath them – the groaning of the springs – how he drops himself down heavily and grinds and Martin keens in response, sobs as Peter wrenches the full knot of his cock in and out of his hole. 

Peter comes with his teeth in Martin’s shoulder and their hips flush. Buried to the hilt inside Martin’s tight, spasming body. Flooding him with come. Peter isn’t restraining Martin any longer, gripping the headboard instead as if he’d needed even more anchoring to drive himself deep inside Martin. It’s freed Martin up to clutch at Peter’s fur with one hand. To reach between them and rub himself off one last, shuddering time.


End file.
